THE river runs with turbid flow,
The weed-chok'd rivulet creepeth slow;
For all the hanging woods, that fringe
Their margins, blush with autumn's tinge,
And every breeze that murmurs past
Doth from the fading branches cast
A painted leaf of gold or red
Athwart the limpid surface shed.
Patient the wandering angler heaves
His lures amid those floating leaves,
Till spinning line and humming reel
Soon fill with spotted trout the creel.
Unwearied now the anglers take
Their pilgrimage to Greenwood Lake,
They float along its lovely shores,
Scarce dipping the suspended oars;
They skim across its azure face
Forgetful of the finny race,
For, lost in. admiration, they
Linger the fair scene to survey,
Forget the black bass to ensnare
While gazing on a scene so fair.
And now, along the surging deep,
Where loud the salty breakers sweep,
The fishers on some jutting cape,
Where sea-kelp the black boulders drape,
Swing the long rod, and cast the line
Across the eddies of the brine;
And ofttimes turn the wistful eye
The gorgeous woodlands to descry;
To view the panorama grand
Of foamy sea and fairy land,
Those bending skies of heavenly blue,
Earth rich with every matchless hue.
O roseate skies, O cloudlets pure,
That sail the upper depths of air;
O earth, with all thy garniture
Of royal groves and woodlands rare;
O breezy bays, and lakes serene,
Soon will the winter's icy breath
Blight all the glories of the scene
And seal the fading year in death.
McLellan, Isaac. Poems of the Rod and Gun. New York: Henry Thorpe, 1886.
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